


Your Graces

by sabraneadaz



Series: i worship, high praises [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bickering, Carol Ann Duffy - Freeform, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, Footnotes, Kissing, Love, Love Poems, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, Post-Canon, Power Play, Praise Kink, Restraints, Senses, Submission, Teasing, Touching, bastard aziraphale, emily bronte - Freeform, sorry carol ann duffy, sorry ms bronte, the sequel i said i would never write, well like one footnote
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabraneadaz/pseuds/sabraneadaz
Summary: "What dastardly things have you got planned for me then, angel?" Crowley teased.“I wouldn’t have thought dastardly deeds should inspire worry in a demon,” Aziraphale replied, as he gently tugged at the cuffs around Crowley’s wrists.“Only the angelic ones,” Crowley sniped back.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: i worship, high praises [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616653
Comments: 13
Kudos: 152





	Your Graces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soongtypeprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soongtypeprincess/gifts).



> Like the first installment, title is from Worship by Years & Years.
> 
> So remember that exhibitionism-on-the-train fic I wrote last July?? and then everyone was like 'write another chapter you owe me because i almost came in my pants at work'...well I finally took pity on you ;) 
> 
> It isn't necessary to read High Praises to understand this, but it would probably enrich the experience!
> 
> Dedicated to soongtypeprincess because she's an amazing friend, supportive, incredibly generous, and a brilliant writer and creative. Thank you <3
> 
> Enjoy :)

It wasn’t the evening of the train ride that Crowley knelt at Aziraphale's feet. No, much to Crowley's consternation (read: desperation), several hours of teasing wasn't conducive to a night of sexy poetry and orgasm control, and the tension of that day had peaked with a couple of rounds of tender fucking on Aziraphale's thousand thread count sheets, with both of their orgasms sweet and lasting as rich caramel.

But this evening - this evening with its soft lighting, with Debussy floating from the aged gramophone, still as sweet sounding as its debut song, with a soft blanket folded neatly and laid before Aziraphale's armchair, and with a stack of books on the side table - this evening promised pleasure and possibility both.

Crowley's mind flashed back to that fateful train ride as the pads of Aziraphale's fingers grazed down his chest, so, so gently this time, down to his quivering stomach, skin that flinched and tickled under the gentle press of his hands. As their lips met, Aziraphale hooked his thumb into Crowley's navel, a gentle caress at the rim of it, a brush of air across the tiny hairs there reaching into his core and lighting him up from within. Aziraphale's thick, soft fingers splayed across the cut of Crowley's hip bones, under his open shirt and barely meeting the low rise of his jeans, gripping him so solidly, and yet so gently, that Crowley had no doubt Aziraphale could - and would - move him, push him, pull him wherever he desired to. And his lips. That hot mouth against Crowley's, the air thick between them where he couldn't help but draw in suffocating breaths, flick his tongue out to taste Aziraphale's wine-soaked tongue, to taste the scent of his rich cologne rising from the skin of his throat. Touching thigh to thigh, hand to hip, nose to nose, lips to lips.

When they broke apart, on the lingering tail of a deep kiss, Crowley pressed Aziraphale firmly back into the bookcase behind him, and decidedly ignored the amused huff in his ear.

Aziraphale was still wearing his overcoat – just another infuriating layer to obstruct Crowley’s greedy fingers. Rain thundered against the windows and roof of the bookshop, and glittering beads stubbornly clung to camelhair and denim, shined their shoes in streaks where they slotted together. Crowley stalked the scent of that infernal cologne mixed with London rainwater down Aziraphale's jaw – teeth sharp, lips firm - and slipped the button of his trousers free.

Crowley had been half-aroused all evening as they’d watched a performance of Tartuffe at the theatre. Aziraphale had begun the evening by sitting eagerly forward in his chair and bristling at any noise in the audience, but he’d promptly started talking under his breath to Crowley with comments such as ‘This scene caused _quite_ a stir in the upper echelons on its release’ or 'Moliere wasn’t even sure if he should include this bit, but I encouraged him’, and then within the hour he had devolved into snarky criticisms of the performance itself, sniffing at botched scenes with quiet offence. Soho was full of alleyways, and on their walk back from the theatre Crowley’s mind had been occupied with thoughts of dragging Aziraphale into them, shoving his hand down the angel’s trousers and working him to orgasm again and again, the slick soaking through his underwear and darkening his trousers.

Now, Aziraphale's gasp at the sink of Crowley’s teeth in his shoulder, at the vibrant pulse under the soft skin – well, it was a greater satisfaction than any temptation.

Suddenly, a sharp tug at his roots yanked him away, his neck arching and eyes rolling back at the sting. He groaned as Aziraphale pulled his hips flush with a palm on his backside, and the quivering warmth in his belly caught like a lit wick in the wind.

"Not so fast, Crowley,' Aziraphale chided, while he did some not-quite-so-angelic things through denim.

The pressure of that fingertip, just tracing - tracing the very edge of the cheek where it met the seam of his jeans, and the impeccably manicured nails _raking_ over his scalp-

Aziraphale brought him forward into a kiss again, incongruously soft against the possessive hold he had on him.

“Have you been this hard all evening?” he asked as they broke apart. Crowley could feel himself digging into the give of Aziraphale’s stomach. Aziraphale didn’t wait for him to answer. “You filthy thing. Walking the streets like that.”

Crowley grinned. “Angel, it’s a Friday night in Soho. My dick is practically PG.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched at the corner but he brought Crowley back in for another kiss before he could comment. Aziraphale’s fingers had gentled against Crowley’s scalp and now they were stroking softly through his hair. Neither of them had mentioned it, but Crowley had been letting his hair grow out and curl up, and loose waves dropped down to just above his shoulders. Crowley tilted his head back against Aziraphale’s touch as if to say ‘go on, pull my hair, I dare you.’ The crow’s feet at Aziraphale’s eyes deepened and his cheeks dimpled. Crowley couldn’t look away.

"My dear, you look like you want to devour me."

Crowley flicked his tongue out over his bottom lip, a calculated move executed perfectly, if the heat in Aziraphale's keen eyes was anything to go by.

He flicked his thumb over the button of Aziraphale's trousers, caught his nail in the open loop. "That's the idea, angel," he grinned, teeth bared.

The rosy pink dust along Aziraphale's cheekbones dripped from his demurred eyelashes, casting that English Rose glow over his features that screamed danger, run, you won't survive this-

And then, his arse cold and bereft, firm fingers wrapped around Crowley's wrist under the open black cuff of his shirt, and the bite of metal was so sharp a shock that he stumbled back and almost tripped over his own feet.

The scrunched fabric of his sleeve exposed a stretch of his forearm and his wrist where those delicate blue veins were adorned with a cold metal cuff and Aziraphale's circlet grip.

Crowley swallowed. "Now, just where were you hiding those, angel?" he asked, rather bravely.

Aziraphale grinned mischievously and gripped his own sleeve as if to whip something out from it – a string of colourful kerchiefs perhaps, oh Satan-

"On second thoughts, don't tell me."

Crowley ignored the amused quirk of Aziraphale’s lips, and he gripped his own thigh with his free hand as he glanced over to the chair where it waited in front of the fire. (1) He looked again at the blanket on the floor, the books on the table - _“try to keep them, poet, those erotic visions of yours-"_ and his knees ached at the sight.

(1. Crowley maintained that having an open fire in a bookshop wasn’t the most intelligent of Aziraphale's ideas, but Aziraphale wouldn't be moved on it. Created the right atmosphere or some tosh like that. It just made Crowley's clothes smell.)

"Ngkk," he whispered, articulately.

"Hmmm," Aziraphale agreed, and stepped forward so they were flush once again. His thumb caressed the inside of Crowley's wrist encouragingly, and Crowley watched the dig of his teeth in his pink bottom lip as his eyes flicked down, trailing a prickling route down Crowley’s neck and chest. It was the most indulgent form of torture.

"I'll need your other hand, of course, dear. It rather defeats the point to only have one restrained."

"What dastardly things have you got planned for me then, angel?" Crowley teased. He slid his other hand to the small of his back, feeling his cheeks colouring at the blatant display of submission. Damn Aziraphale, that cunning bastard. "Anything I should be worried about?" he continued, and okay, _perhaps_ his voice caught when the cuffs snapped snug around both wrists, but barely.

And he was encased - ensnared - in the heat of Aziraphale's warm arms along the line of his own, with his head tucked against the angel's neck and inhaling that stunning, intoxicating scent of divinity, and well-aged wine, and old books and bookshop-must and just a whiff of after-shave on smooth skin that betrayed Aziraphale's earlier visit to the barbers, indulgent hedonist that he is, and – oh, they'd barely started and already Crowley was _lost._

“I wouldn’t have thought dastardly deeds should inspire worry in a _demon_ ,” Aziraphale replied, as he gently tugged at the cuffs around Crowley’s wrists.

“Only the angelic ones,” Crowley sniped back. He let himself be led over to Aziraphale’s armchair, but was left bereft when Aziraphale pulled away with a quick caress along his arm. Crowley watched him head back towards the shop floor, confused for a second, but then Aziraphale was slipping his damp overcoat from his shoulders, tugging the sleeves off those broad arms. He reached up to hang it on the polished coat stand in the corner and then primly tugged his waistcoat into place. Crowley swallowed.

He felt uncomfortable standing there, aroused, with his chest exposed and wrists cuffed behind his back. He shifted, and after a moment of hesitation he knelt down, facing the armchair and away from Aziraphale. Footsteps paused just behind him, and then a soft hand was back in his hair again.

“Get back up, my dear. I don’t want you kneeling just yet.”

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale with a raised brow.

Aziraphale settled back into his armchair with a sigh, back straight, knees together – all prim and proper. He tapped his knee.

“Up you get,” he said.

Crowley frowned, but stood up regardless. “I’m not a dog.”

Aziraphale ignored that remark and pulled him forward by the hips until Crowley had no choice but to straddle his broad thighs, knees lodged between the angel’s hips and the plush arms of the chair. He was a head taller than Aziraphale like this, which meant he had to look down the length of their bodies to see Aziraphale’s hand at his belt, unsnapping the snake-head buckle and slowly – _frustratingly_ – pulling it away loop by loop.

Crowley couldn’t stop the little jerk of his hips into Aziraphale’s stomach. “What are you doing, angel?” he asked in a low voice.

“What does it look like, my dear?”

Crowley groaned against Aziraphale’s chin when the button of his jeans popped open under the angel’s insistent thumb, and he could _smell_ his own arousal, it was ridiculous– he was so worked up after barely any time and it was _embarrassing_ -

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said, and the wonder in his voice stopped Crowley’s thoughts in his tracks, “oh you gorgeous thing, look at you.”

“Uh. I was supposed to- was going to-“ he broke off on a gasp as Aziraphale’s warm hand wrapped firmly around him.

“We’ve got plenty of time for all that, but first I think we need to take the edge off, don’t you?”

“Right…” Crowley said unsteadily. His hips hitched forward, pushing his cock through Aziraphale’s loose fist, and he could feel the pull in his calves as they took the strain of balancing on Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale’s free hand was resting high on Crowley’s thigh, and somehow that idle hand was more erotic than even the steady fingers pulling at his cock. Crowley sought out Aziraphale’s lips and their kiss was hot and heady.

Aziraphale’s thighs had parted slightly now, spreading Crowley’s legs even further apart and making him even more vulnerable. Crowley writhed in the angel’s lap. For the first time ever his jeans felt loose around his hips, letting his cock stand straight up and helpless to Aziraphale’s grip

Crowley moaned at a particularly gorgeous press of Aziraphale’s thumb and instinctively tried to reach out for the angel. Aziraphale had to steady him as he lurched forward, shoulders straining and fighting the restraints.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was reverent. He tugged Crowley forwards so his head rested on his shoulder, still clad in the infuriating shirt and waistcoat. Crowley sagged against him with his face tucked into Aziraphale’s neck, back curved and hips still hitching in his lap. Aziraphale cupped the back of his head softly as he continued to stroke him, drawing his thumb across the damp head of his cock again and again.

Crowley’s fingers tensed reflexively and he clutched the belt loop at the back of his jeans to try and ground himself.

“Fuck. Aziraphale. Ngk. Angel. _Angel_ ,” he gasped. He couldn’t help pulling against the handcuffs and the cold metal dug into the soft skin of his wrists, immovable. He heard a moan vibrate through Aziraphale’s chest, and then Aziraphale’s thumb was pressed against his wrist, caressing the sensitive skin there and soothing him.

“My dear…” Aziraphale said against his ear, “do you want to touch me?”

“You know I do,” Crowley replied, frustration apparent in his tone.

Aziraphale tutted, and then, startlingly, smacked Crowley’s arse.

Okay, well, it was more of a gentle tap than a _smack_ , as such, but it was new territory, and unpredictable enough that Crowley’s fingers curled up in shock at the small of his back and he reared back to look at his angel’s face.

Aziraphale’s bottom lip was caught between his perfect, pearly-white teeth. His eyes were wide and sparkling.

Suddenly his hand came down again on Crowley’s right cheek, just a little harder this time, and Crowley couldn’t help falling forward towards his mouth, diving into a clumsy kiss and groaning as Aziraphale’s palm fit against the curve of his backside and _squeezed_.

Then his cock was bereft as Aziraphale slid his other hand back to match, grabbing and squeezing his cheeks and pulling him firmly against him. His cock was trapped between his own damp stomach and Aziraphale’s waistcoat, worn, dry fabric just on the edge of uncomfortable.

As they kissed, messy and deep, Crowley drew back to pant against Aziraphale’s mouth. “Angel,” he murmured, “ _Angel_ , fuck…I hope you – can clean your waistcoat-“

Aziraphale giggled and Crowley hid his face in the angel’s neck again. At the same moment he felt pre-come slicking the way and he groaned as Aziraphale took him in hand once more, and his mind felt clearer somehow, as if he’d ascended to some higher plateau of feeling and had given himself over entirely to Aziraphale’s embrace. And the angel’s grip was firmer this time, faster, drawing him closer and closer to the edge and murmuring into his hair, urging him on, urging him to come over his fist and drawing his thumb up the length of him and – Crowley shook apart on Aziraphale’s lap.

His thighs were tense and shaking, his back bowed, his face pressed into Aziraphale’s neck and chin digging into his collarbone. And his cock was gripped firm in Aziraphale’s hot palm – Aziraphale whose thumb drew light circles over the very tip of him, drawing his orgasm out into a quivering, shaking release.

Eventually the static in his head receded a little and he sat back on Aziraphale’s thighs with a lazy blink. He expected Aziraphale to drop his hand, perhaps wrap his arms around him and have a snog, but Aziraphale didn’t let up with his thumb. Crowley twitched his hips back and gasped at a particularly sensitive wipe.

“Angel,” he said, voice high, “give me a _moment_ would you?”

“Just a little more, Crowley.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with that earnest, slightly-lustful expression, and Crowley didn’t stand a chance. He let his eyes flutter closed and grit his teeth against the sharp pleasure shaking through his body. And with his knees lodged to either side and his wrists restrained he couldn’t get enough purchase to move away even if he tried.

Aziraphale’s eyes were so expressive too, so _exposing_ , practically stripping Crowley as they roved over his body and fixated on the head of his cock peeking out from the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb. Crowley felt his cock twitch under that gaze and he groaned, shifting in his seat astride Aziraphale’s thick thighs and trembling as the pleasure-pain built to another crescendo.

“Angel, I don’t-“

Aziraphale’s free hand cradled Crowley’s cheek and Crowley moaned. One more pulse of pleasure and another dribble of come oozed from the head of his cock, leaving him rung out and feeling like he’d lost a battle of wills with twelve glasses of red.

When Crowley came back to himself Aziraphale was stroking his back and whispering soft praise into his hair. Crowley shifted closer to that warm, steadfast body, and Aziraphale finally wrapped his arms around him with a contented sigh. His clever hands smoothed Crowley’s shirt down his arms, where it vanished moments later. His bare back quickly warmed in the heat of the fire behind him, and Aziraphale stroked the strain right out of his limbs.

There was one spot on Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley’s flickering tongue told him, where his cologne and his celestial angelic scent were concentrated in the best way. Crowley wasn’t one to let an opportunity like that pass him by, and he turned his head to nose into that spot and pull the fragile skin between his teeth. Aziraphale was gently tucking him away and readjusting his jeans around his hip, and Crowley sucked fiercely at his neck in retaliation.

Aziraphale hummed. The sound was gorgeous. It was warm and deep and content and seemed to encompass Crowley in its pleasure. Aziraphale’s hand buried itself on Crowley’s hair as he finished his purple masterpiece on Aziraphale skin, and then Aziraphale tugged him back firmly and brought their lips together for a lazy kiss. He was smiling as they pulled apart, self-satisfied. Crowley couldn’t even find the energy to bristle at that.

“You’re still…amenable to this?” Aziraphale checked, tapping Crowley’s wrists.

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts now, angel?” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale smiled.

“Right,” he said, voice cheery. “Down you go, then.”

Crowley grinned at that. It took him a good moment or two to dislodge his knees and wiggle back enough to get his feet on the ground, and Aziraphale, bastard that he was, even went as far as to pluck a glass of wine from the side table (had that been there before?) and take an indulgent sip while Crowley struggled.

Crowley’s legs were unsteady, weak from disuse and orgasm, but Crowley was confident his collapse to his knees looked sexy.

And there, kneeling on the floor between Aziraphale’s spread thighs with the soft blanket under his knees, and the angel still all prim and buttoned up before him, Crowley’s arousal flared up as high as it had been when they’d returned to the bookshop earlier that evening. He took a moment, closed his eyes, and rested his head against Aziraphale’s knee.

For just a moment he felt gentle fingers in his hair, a palm cupping his face, and the pad of a thumb drifting across his bottom lip. Then the rim of the glass, warm from Aziraphale’s lips, and a rich red wine to wet his palate. Crowley followed the retreating wine glass forwards until his knees were pressed against the armchair and Aziraphale’s glorious thighs were laid before him.

 _My cup runneth over_.

Crowley wanted to cleave the armchair in half and press in as close to that concealed flesh as he could, to insinuate himself between Aziraphale’s spread legs and have those gorgeous, cushiony thighs wrapped firmly around his head. His mouth watered with the thought of the heat between them, how he could expose Aziraphale’s entrance to the warm air of the room and see it twitch, see it pink and glistening at the opening and begging for the touch of Crowley’s tongue. 

Then Aziraphale pushed him away.

Crowley’s golden eyes were wide and wanting, taking in the sight of Aziraphale holding a slim volume in his right hand.

“Poetry?” Crowley asked.

“I did promise you so, Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s free hand came back again to stroke through Crowley’s hair. His thumb traced the delicate curve of his ear.

“Do you still want to?”

Crowley’s lip protested as he bit it, hard.

“Crowley?”

Crowley considered Aziraphale’s earnest expression, the volume he held aloft, the ache reigniting his own shoulders and the cuffs around his wrists. He considered how kneeling like this pulled the denim tight across his crotch where his cock was starting to perk up again.

“Anything you want, angel,” he murmured.

Aziraphale studied him a moment longer, and his eyes narrowed in a frown. He was unconvinced.

Crowley decided he could take a bit of vulnerability, if only to stop his angel’s hesitation.

“The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me,

And I will not, cannot go.”

He’d misquoted, but Aziraphale didn’t call him out on it. Instead, he smiled fondly and settled back in his chair.

“You’re the tyrant,” Crowley clarified needlessly.

“A merciful one, surely?”

“Evidence suggests otherwise,” Crowley replied, and Aziraphale giggled. The patter of rain on the windows was dull against the glow of the fire-lit room.

Aziraphale wanted poetry? Aziraphale would get poetry...

He was golden there astride his chair.

Crowley would never acknowledge the sentimental core of himself, but _Someone_ , Aziraphale was glorious. Even in the dullest room he had a pure celestial radiance about him, but here in his cosy bookshop and well-worn clothing and in the cast of the fire, that cool light burned gold.

_For thousands of seconds we kiss; your hair_

_like treasure on the ground; the Midas light_

_turning your limbs to gold._

The poem saturated his mind, and Crowley was just grateful that for them, those thousands of seconds need not be counted. Their Love was not Time’s fool. Crowley rested his cheek against the inside of Aziraphale’s knee and waited for the tyrant to take mercy on him.

**Author's Note:**

> Poems referenced:  
> When They Come Alive - C. P. Cavafy  
> The night is darkening round me - Emily Bronte  
> Hour - Carol Ann Duffy
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale love each other and I love comments ;)
> 
> Find me on tumblr at @folieassdeux


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